On lighter wings we bid you fly,
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep to drink,
And in this ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear-

And your grave will be this glass of wine,

Your epitaph-a tear—

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat,

We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

15. Charles Brockden Brown (1771-1810) was born in Philadelphia but spent most of his life in New York. He made literature the business of his life; in fact, he was the first American to adopt letters as a profession. His first story, Wieland, was immediately successful. There is a touch of both realism and weirdness in his tales. Embedded in his long rambling romances are many short stories, but he lacked the genius to crystallize them into artistic form.

THE YELLOW FEVER IN PHILADELPHIA

(From Arthur Merwyn)

In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farmhouse was filled with supernumerary tenants, fugitives from home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. The passengers were numerous; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. Few had secured to themselves an asylum; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodgings

for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach.

Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. Pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbors, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty.. My frequent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers contributed . . . to procrastination. The sun had nearly set before I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the track which I had formerly taken, and entered High Street after nightfall.

Instead of equipages and a throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but a dreary solitude.

The market place, and each side of this magnificent avenue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wonder and suspicion, and as I approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar and their nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful perfume.

I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now they were closed, above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled.

These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame.

I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I approached a house, the door of which was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognized to be a hearse.

The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro; but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, . . . "It wasn't the fever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor ... it wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me told me to stay a few minutes."

"Pshaw! He could not live" [said the other]. "The sooner dead the better for him; as well as for us. Do you mark how he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my life, since I was kneehigh, but curse me, if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. Hey!" continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse; "what's wanted? Anybody dead?"

I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. I was ashamed of my own infirmity; and, by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns. .

I proceeded, in a considerable degree at random. At length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, which the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly and often at the door. At length At length a female opened the window of the second story, and, in a tone of peevishness, demanded what I wanted. I told her that I wanted lodging.

"Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she; "you'll find none here." I began to expostulate; but she shut the window with quickness and left me to my own reflections. . . .

16. Royall Tyler (1757-1826), a Vermont jurist, was our first successful playwright. He wrote many dramas, the most popular of which was The Contrast, an extract from which is given below.

THE FIRST AMERICAN COMEDY REGULARLY PRODUCED (THE CONTRAST, A COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS: WRITTEN BY A CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES-PERFORMED IN 1787, AT THE THEATRE IN JOHN STREET, NEW YORK—1790.) (From The Advertisement)

In justice to the Author it may be proper to observe that this Comedy has many claims to the public indulgence, independent of its intrinsic merits: It is the first essay of American genius in a difficult species of composition; it was written by one who never critically studied the rules of the drama, and, indeed, had seen but few of the exhibitions of the stage; it was undertaken and finished in the course of three weeks; and the profits of one night's performance were appropriated to the benefit of the sufferers by the fire at Boston.

Prologue, In Rebuke Of The Prevailing Anglomania

Exult each patriot heart!—this night is shown
A piece, which we may fairly call our own;
Where the proud titles of "My Lord! Your Grace!"
To humble "Mr." and plain "Sir" give place.
Our author pictures not from foreign climes
The fashions, or the follies of the times;

But has confined the subject of his work

To the gay scenes the circles of New York.

On native themes his Muse displays her powers;

If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours.

Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam,
When each refinement can be found at home?
Who travels now to ape the rich or great,

To deck an equipage and roll in state;
To court the graces, or to dance with ease,-
Or by hypocrisy to strive to please?
Our free-born ancestors such arts despised;

Genuine sincerity alone they prized;
Their minds with honest emulation fired,
To solid good-not ornament—aspired;
Or, if ambition roused a bolder flame,

Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame.
But modern youths, with imitative sense,
Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence;
And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts,
Since homespun habits would obscure their parts;
Whilst all, which aims at splendor and parade,
Must come from Europe, and be ready-made.
Strange we should thus our native worth disclaim,
And check the progress of our rising fame.
Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway,
Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way.
Be roused, my friends! his bold example view;
Let your own bards be proud to copy you!
Should rigid critics reprobate our play,
At least the patriotic heart will say,
"Glorious our fall, since in a noble cause;
The bold attempt alone demands applause.'
Still may the wisdom of the Comic Muse
Exalt your merits, or your faults accuse.
But think not 'tis her aim to be severe;-
We all are mortals, and as mortals err.
If candor pleases, we are truly blest;
Vice trembles, when compelled to stand confessed.
Let not light censure on your faults offend,
Which aims not to expose them, but amend.
Thus does our author to your candor trust;
Conscious the free are generous, as just.

IV. A Literary Anomaly

17. Phillis Wheatley Peters, a negro girl brought from Africa at the age of eight, became a slave in a Boston family. She was very precocious, learned easily, and began early to write verses imitating the English poets of the eighteenth century. A volume of her poems was published in 1773. They show little creative talent but ready imitative ability.